"Huff, Tanya - Blood 5 - Blood Debt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huff Tanya)

"You?"
"What am I? Am I camouflage?"
"Tony . . ." Then he saw the expression in Tony's eyes and realized that it hadn't been a facetious question. "Tony, I trust you with everything I am. There're only two other people in the world I can say that about, and one of them doesn't exactly count."
"Because Vicki's become a vampire?"
"Because Michael Celluci would never admit to knowing a ... romance writer."
Tony laughed, as he was meant to, but Henry heard the artificial resonance. For the rest of the night, he worked hard at erasing it.

She'd seen the article too late to do anything about it that night, and the wait had not improved her temper.
"Is Richard Sullivan on duty?"
Startled, the edge on the words having cut her memory to shreds, the nurse checked the duty sheet. "Yes, Doctor. He . . ."
"I want to see him in my office. Immediately."
"Yes, Doctor." No point in protesting that he was cleaning up an unfortunate bedpan accident. Immediately meant immediately and no later. As she paged him, the nurse hoped that whatever Sullivan had done, it wasn't enough to get him fired. Orderlies willing to do the shit work without bitching and complaining were few and far between. Besides, it was difficult not to like the big man; those puppy dog eyes were hard to resist.
"What do you know about this?"
Sullivan looked down at the article and then up at the doctor. Denial died unspoken as she read his answer off his face.
"This is one of ours?"
He nodded.
"Then what part of my instructions did you not understand?"
"It's not that I ..."
"Or do you not enjoy your job? Is it not everything I told you it would be?"
"Yes. I mean, I do. And it is, but . . ."
"You are not supposed to be showing initiative, Mr. Sullivan."
Their relative sizes made it ridiculous that he should cower before her temper, but he did anyway.

The ghost was wearing a Cult and Jackyl T-shirt, a local band that recorded in North Vancouver. Henry was a little surprised it wasn't a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He'd often suspected the universe had a really macabre, and pretty basic, sense of humor. Its arms still ended just above the wrist. Again, it seemed to be waiting.
Tony believed it wanted vengeance.
I suppose that's as good a theory as any, Henry reflected. He sighed. "Do you want revenge on the person who took your hands?"
Impatience adding a first hint of personality to translucent features, the ghost slowly faded away.
Henry sighed again. "I take it that's a qualified yes."
The apartment was empty when he emerged from his room. After a moment, he remembered it was Saturday and Tony would be working late.
"Which is probably a good thing," he announced to the lights of the city. He wondered if the ghost expected him to begin by finding the hands, and if he should be looking for the remains of flesh and bone or an ethereal pair quite possibly haunting someone else.
When Tony returned home after midnight, he was in his office with the door closed, deep in the complicated court politics of 1813 and more than a little concerned with his heroine's refusal to follow the plot as outlined. Dawn nearly caught him still trying to decide whether Wellington would promote her betrothed to full colonel and he raced for the sanctuary of his bed having forgotten his spectral visitor in the night's work.
"This is becoming irritating; do you at least know who has your hands?"
The ghost threw back its head and screamed. No sound emerged from the gaping black hole of a mouth, but Henry felt the hair lift off the back of his neck and a cold dread wrap around his heart. While the scream endured, he thought he sensed a multitude of spirits within the scream; all shrieking in unison, all lamenting the injustice of their deaths. His lips drew off his teeth in an involuntary snarl.
"Henry? Henry! Are you okay?"
The ghost's face, distended by the continuing scream, faded last.
"Henry!"
It took him a moment to realize that the pounding wasn't his heart—it was Tony, banging frantically on the bedroom door. He shook himself free of the lingering uneasiness and padded across the room, the carpet cold and damp against his bare feet. Releasing the bolts, he called, "I'm all right."
When he opened the door, Tony nearly fell into his arms.
Eyes wide, panting as though he'd just run a race, Tony pulled back far enough to see for himself that Henry was unharmed. "I heard . . . no, I felt ... it was . . ." His fingers tightened around Henry's bare shoulders. "What happened? Was it the ghost?"
"I'm only guessing, but I think I asked it a question with a negative answer."
"Negative?" Tony's voice rose to an incredulous squeak and he let his arms drop to his side. "I'll say it was negative. It was bottom of the pit, soul-sucking, annihilation!"
"It wasn't that bad . . ."
"Maybe not for you!"
Concerned, Henry studied Tony's face. "Are you all right?"
"I guess." He drew in a deep breath, released it slowly, and nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay. But I'm gonna stay right here and watch you dress." Propped up on one shoulder, he sagged against the doorframe, too frightened to be tough, or independent, or even interested in Henry's nakedness. "I don't want to be alone."
"Do you want to know what happened?" From Tony's expression, it was clear that he hadn't needed to ask. While he pulled on his clothes, Henry described what had occurred when he'd tried to get more information from the ghost.
"So, you can only ask one question and if the answer's yes, it disappears quietly, and if the answer's no, it lets you know how disappointed it is with you."
"Not only how disappointed it is," Henry told him. "When it screamed, I sensed a multitude of the dead."
"Yeah? How many dead in a multitude, Henry?"
"This is nothing to joke about."